


Upon a time

by DracoIgnis, Dragon_and_Direwolf



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Band Fic, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Christmas, F/M, Family Issues, Jonerys Advent 2020, Love Confessions, Memories, Music, Mutual Pining, Nostalgia, Pining, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:34:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28287804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DracoIgnis/pseuds/DracoIgnis, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragon_and_Direwolf/pseuds/Dragon_and_Direwolf
Summary: One year after his father's death, Jon returns to Winterfell to celebrate Christmas with the Starks. But old feelings soon resurface as he's confronted by his past. Once a famous musician, memories of his former band now linger in every room - but it's his love for the lead singer Daenerys that he's unwilling to let go of.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 44
Kudos: 323





	Upon a time

The sun sets as Jon drives down the long avenue toward Winterfell manor. The melting snow on the road has turned to brown slush. As specks of mud dirty the windscreen, he thinks it feels more like an autumn afternoon than December. The leaves on the ground are golden and wet. The sky is heavy with rain. The poplars lining the way stand barren. Sansa has decorated them with fairy lights, but against the grey backdrop of the clouds, the colourful glow of the lamps looks grotesque.

The car smells of cigarette ashes and cold coffee. Jon lights another smoke and easens his foot on the accelerator as the house comes into view. It’s covered in holly and red bows, figures of elfs running alongside the rooftop, an inflatable snowman waving from the front yard. The sight should make him cheery. He feels like throwing up. He parks in the shade of the trees, the shadows stretching far in the dimming sunlight, and checks his phone for messages.

There is just one:

> Jon read it before leaving Edinburgh that morning. He mulled over it when he stopped for coffee near Perth. He studied it again and again over lunch in a pub outside Inverness. He thought of replying. No words seem right.

 _I’m okay…_ Too depressing.

 _Hope you’re okay too._ Too aversive.

 _Thanks._ Too short.

 _I have been thinking about you recently and I just wanted to say-._ Too:

“Fuck.” Jon stuffs the phone away with a sigh and leans back into the seat. As the cigarette tips between his teeth, ashes flickering through the air, he closes his eyes and tries to remember the last time they were together. It was a year ago. It was Christmas. It didn’t feel like it. There were no decorations and no songs and no tree. They sat on the backseat of his car. They were dressed in black. They could barely look at each other.

There’s a knock on the driver side window. Jon blinks his eyes open and stares out at Sansa.

His sister smiles: “Jon!” Her voice is muffled through the glass. Her red hair is braided, her blue jumper is old. The sleeves jump around as she waves in at him. “Jon, you made it!”

Jon has a last drag of his cigarette. He pulls his leather jacket tight around his frame. Then, he opens the door and braves the cold winter wind. “Hey Sansa,” he says and steps outside. The air is wet. His sister is warm. When she pulls him in for a hug, he dips his fingers into the wool and holds her close. She smells of his childhood: lemon cakes, fearless laughter, puzzles with missing pieces. He wishes himself back to the troubles of youth. But when she lets go, he returns to the present: bitter breeze, aching heart, days full of regrets. He hasn’t seen her in a year. Before he can flush with guilt, she assures him:

“It’s fine.”

“How is she?”

“She is fine,” Sansa repeats, although she seems less certain this time. She gestures for him to follow, and he trudges behind her as they make their way up the steps to the front door. Her blue eyes peer over her shoulder. He feels her scrutinising his outfit. “Aren’t you cold?”

Jon is dressed for the city; tight jeans, black tee, oversized Dr Martens. He shrugs: “I’m always hot,” and hides his shivering fingers in the pockets of his jacket as they enter the hallway.

The wallpaper is faded, and the carpet downtrodden. Jon can hear the floorboards creak beneath his feet when he walks. There are photographs everywhere; holidays in the sun, graduation shoots, weddings. He tries not to look, but he does see: Robb and Margaery, Sansa and Theon, Arya and Gendry. _Jon and no one,_ he thinks bitterly when a framed newspaper cut-out catches his eyes:

> Sansa sees him looking. “She likes that one,” she says.

“What, the picture?” Jon asks and leans in. There, beneath the article, is a black and white photo of the band. Muddled in the ink of the background is Grey with his guitar, Daario by the drums, and Satin on the electric piano. In the foreground he finds himself, young and smiling, the hair on his chin neatly trimmed, his black curls a crown around his head. And next to him is _she:_

silver hair, bright eyes, freckled chin, cheeky summer dress. She holds a microphone in her hand. She stares right back at him. He can almost hear her dare him: “One more song?”

But it’s Sansa who speaks: “She likes the song. _Upon a time._ She plays it every night.”

“Piss off,” Jon laughs, but when he glances back at her, she sends him an earnest look. “Really?”

“Really,” she nods, “after all, it was Dad’s fav-” The words die out on her lips. Her blue eyes grow as pale as her skin.

Jon avoids looking at her. He stares at his boots. They’re new, without a crease in them. “Can I see her?” he asks.

Sansa leads him through the house. Jon had forgotten how big it is. The hallways are long, and the doors on either side stand ajar. As they pass by, he peers into dusty bedrooms and forgotten living spaces. It was a lonely place for a couple, he thinks. It’s insufferable for a single woman. He realises he should’ve visited more. The guilt settles in his throat and makes it hard to breathe. The air seems stuffy. The walls edge closer. He wants to turn around and leave. He must apologise: “Sorry, this was a mistake-” but he doesn’t get a word across before Sansa pushes a door open and says:

“In here,” and Jon finds himself stepping across the threshold into a small, hot room.

Flames flicker in the fireplace. The air smells of heat and ashes. _And wine._ Jon spots the glass on the table. Red droplets still cling onto the side. It has been recently emptied.

“Mum, Jon’s here,” Sansa says.

At first, Jon is not sure who his sister is speaking to. But then he spots her; pale and bony like a skeleton, Catelyn sits huddled up in the large armchair before the fireplace. She looks so small that he could’ve mistaken her for a life-sized doll - but her eyes are hard and real when she stares up at him.

“Hi Catelyn,” Jon greets. The woman doesn’t speak. Her lips snare together, and she gives him a long, cold glare before peering back into the flames. He quirks his brows at Sansa, but his sister merely shakes her head, so he takes a seat on an empty footstool near his stepmother. She is elegant as always; the blue dress is thick and adorned with golden thread. The rings in her ears are large and expensive, family heirlooms no doubt. But her eyes are tough and dark like coal.

She sits, and she stares, so Jon too sits, and he stares. For a few minutes, all is peaceful. The flames crackle. The wine glass clinks against the bottle as Sansa refills it and hands it to Catelyn. The warmth from the fire makes Jon’s skin flush with sweat. He shrugs out of his leather jacket. He peels at the zipper. He tries to think of something to say. The pipes in the walls whine like ghosts. He is reminded of the long summer evenings he spent running down the halls with Robb, flashlight in hand, trying to catch a spirit slipping through the ancient rooms. They hoped to meet Brandon, rumoured to have built the mansion, or perhaps Rickard, the grandfather they never got to meet.

Now, seeing Catelyn, Jon wishes he could chase the notion of ghosts away. _There are too many,_ he thinks, _even for a house this large._

“They put him in the crypt,” she says.

Jon stirs. He thinks he might have been asleep. He feels drowsy in the heat. The air is hard to breathe. “I’m sorry?” he says, smacking life back into his lips as he peers at Catelyn.

She’s still staring into the fire. “It’s been a year,” she says, “since they put him in that damned crypt. I wanted him buried in the graveyard, you know. That’s proper. But your father insisted, he said: _Starks never leave the estate.”_

“I miss him too,” Jon says.

“Do you?”

“Of course.”

Catelyn scoffs and sips her wine. “You have a funny way of showing that.”

Before he can stop himself, Jon replies: “We can’t all become alcoholics.” He catches Sansa’s face. Though she stands in the shadows, it shines pale white. She looks shocked.

Catelyn looks anything but. She smirks. She swirls the wine around her glass. “No,” she agrees, “we cannot.” She puts the drink down and does a weak wave. “Sansa, dear, would you give us a moment?”

“Are you sure?” Sansa asks. It’s as much directed at Jon as it is at her mother. She glances between them but, when Jon nods, says: “Sure. I’ll be in the kitchen.” She takes her leave. The door shuts behind her.

Catelyn grows silent once more. She glares into the flames, her hands wringing in her lap as if she’s trying to rid herself of something invisible on her fingers. The lines around her mouth pull back.

Jon waits. Jon speaks: “Catelyn-” but she interrupts him:

“They should’ve burnt his body.” She pulls at her rings. Her fingers have swollen in the heat. The metal is digging in at her skin. “What good will it do, rotting in the crypt? If you don’t rid yourself of the past, it lingers.”

“Are you seeing ghosts?” Jon asks.

Catelyn grimaces and grabs her wine. “Ghosts!” she says and shakes her head as she sips. “Ghosts!” she says again as she slams it back onto the table. “No, Jon, I may be getting old and senile, but I do not see _ghosts.”_

“Sansa says you do,” Jon replies. It makes the wrinkles at her eyes pull, but he can’t tell what she’s feeling; anger, or upset. He finds that he doesn’t really care. He leans forward. He rests his arms on his knees as he tries to catch her eyes. They’re like wisps of smoke - impossible to hold. “She says you’ve been talking about Dad.”

“Surely that’s normal.”

“That you’ve been talking _to_ Dad.”

Catelyn smacks her lips. They’re wet with wine. “There are things I wish I’d said-” she starts, but she stops herself. She stares into the flames. The fire is reflected in her blue eyes - flickering, consuming. She looks mesmerised, Jon thinks, and for a moment he believes she’s forgotten that he’s there. But then she asks: “Do you remember being ill?”

Jon frowns. “I’ve been ill many times.”

“No,” Catelyn says, “you were a strong child. Rickon was always sickly, but you?” She shakes her head. “You had the flu. You were young. Perhaps too young. Ned was away on work, so it was up to me to care for you.” She suckles on her teeth. “Do you remember?”

“No,” Jon admits, giving her an odd look, “I don’t.”

“Ah, you were young, and you were ill, and I fed you soup and sat up all night as you slept, your face as red as an apple. And I said: oh, please God, rid me off this child.”

 _She’s got dementia,_ Jon reminds himself. Sansa told him before he arrived; the months following Eddard’s death have worn on her memory, and she doesn’t know right from wrong, or real from false. _She’s making up stories._ Still, the wry smile that takes over Catelyn’s lips seems genuine, and Jon can’t help but shudder in the heat.

“That’s why I know, Jon, that things that stay linger. Sooner or later, you must confront them, or let them die.”

“Is this our confrontation?” Jon asks.

For the first time since he sat down, Catelyn looks at him. Her eyes are bright in the glow from the fireplace, but the smile on her lips is no more. She watches him for a moment, as if uncertain of who he is, before she speaks: “You buried something.”

“What?”

“In the garden.” Catelyn leans her head back a little, her nose rising in the air as she peers at him. She looks like she’s smelling something sour.

Jon scuffles back on his seat. “I don’t know what you mean,” he replies. He doesn’t like the situation - it feels _weird, uncomfortable._ The Catelyn he knew was always stubborn and unpleasant, but she was strong; she knew how to dominate a room. This Catelyn seems to bounce between silence and prattling. Now, once more, she’s choosing the prior. With her lips snapped, she stares at him expectantly, and Jon stares back, puzzled. “I don’t,” he says again and shrugs. “What did I bury?”

“You left a piece of yourself,” Catelyn says.

“I moved out _years_ ago,” Jon says with impatience. His leg is bouncing. He forces it to stop, his teeth gritted. “I’ve taken all my furniture, all my things-”

“Not everything,” Catelyn disagrees.

“-all my belongings,” Jon finishes. “You’ve only kept what you wanted, like that stupid newspaper article.” He gestures toward the closed door.

Catelyn snaps: “Ned likes your songs.”

 _“Liked,”_ Jon breathes hotly, “he’s _dead._ It’s _you_ who listens to them now.”

“You buried something!”

_“What!”_

The door swings open. Sansa stands on the threshold. She is just as pale as before, Jon notes. He doesn’t believe she ever left. Her right ear looks flushed. _She’s been listening,_ he thinks, face pressed to the keyhole. He can’t decide if it makes him feel better or worse about the situation.

Jon stands up. He pulls on his leather jacket as he glares at Catelyn. “I’ll go to bed,” he says and makes a move to walk, but she reaches out and grabs him by the sleeve. It’s only briefly, her nails barely touching the leather, but it’s enough to make him stop.

“In the garden,” she whispers, peering up at him, an earnest glimpse to her eyes. “Take it. I don’t want it. Take it with you.”

“Right,” Jon says, pulling his arm back, his hand brushing the spot where she touched him. “Sure.” He turns and stalks out of the room, pushing past Sansa on his way. She calls after him:

“Jon!” but he continues down the hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath him, the walls closing in once more. The photographs play around him; smiling faces of his sisters, of his brothers, of his _dad._ He feels watched. He feels sweaty. He reaches for the front door, but Sansa catches up to him in the same. As her hands linger on his back, her voice softens: “Jon, she’s old.”

“She told me she wishes I was _dead.”_

“She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Please,” Sansa grabbles at his jacket, tugs at the leather, forces him to turn around and face her. Her eyes are wet and desperate. The pained look she sends him gives him pause. “I can’t do this alone. The days are hard as it is, but the anniversary of his _death?_ During _Christmas?”_ She shakes her head so strongly that Jon feels the need to stop her.

He grabs her by the shoulders and holds her at an arm’s length, looking down into her eyes. “I’ll stay,” he says. “Okay? I’ll stay. I’m just getting my stuff.”

“Right,” Sansa says. Her cheeks are wet, the tears welling over, but she’s smiling. She wipes her face in the sleeve of her jumper. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

They walk into the cold afternoon air. Jon notices how densely the darkness has fallen. In the city, there is always light, but here out on the countryside the blackness settles thick. He can no longer see the trees, and he struggles to even find his car, his hands bashing against the trunk until he can feel the keyhole. As they pull his stuff from the back, Jon asks: “Do you know what she was on about, something being _buried?”_

“Mhm, I’m not certain,” Sansa admits, swinging a bag over her shoulder. She leads the way back inside, climbing the stairs with small steps. Her slippers rub across the floor. The shuffling sound seems to echo in the hallway. “She’s been saying a lot of weird things recently. Most of it is made up.”

 _“That_ didn’t sound made up,” Jon says. He lugs his suitcase up the stairs, the wheels bumping to every step. “She was really upset about it. _Something buried.”_ He mulls over her words as Sansa leads him to his old bedroom.

The room is dark, and cold, and almost empty. It has a single bed, an old desk, and an empty shelving unit. Jon notes with a certain satisfaction that he spoke the truth; anything of his was removed a long time ago. When Sansa pulls at the curtains, dust flutters through the air and makes her cough.

“Don’t bother,” Jon says, “it’s pitch black out anyway.” He turns on the bedside lamp. An orange glow fills the room. As he peers around, memories seem to prickle just below the surface:

\- hands, laughter, silver hair, stories giggled below blankets; - games of ‘would you rather’, sharp pencils marking names on the wallpaper, the scent of roses; - kisses, promises, whispers of: _“Forever and always”._

Sound suddenly fills the hallway. Music plays. The lyrics are thrown between the walls, echoing through rooms:

_There’s lipstick on your teeth, and your hair is a mess_

_We are dancing in the streets, champagne on our breaths._

_This thing could last forever, or just for tonight;_

_End as total strangers, or with a wedding night._

_But I know your hand in mine, and the taste of your lips, and I_

_Know that you’ll be fine wherever you go, and I_

_Know we’ll meet again one day soon, and I_

_Hope that you’ll be mine, yes I_

_Hope that you’ll be mine._

Sansa sends Jon a pitiful look. “I’m sorry,” she says as she heads for the door.

“Every day?” Jon asks with exasperation, and he sighs when Sansa sends him a small smile and agrees:

“Every night.” The door closes.

Jon sinks onto the edge of the bed. He closes his eyes. His own voice plays on repeat on the other side of the wall - until it’s not just him.

As the chorus starts, Daenerys’ soft voice blooms behind his own rough tones. Like a ghost, she slippers through every crack in the wall, seeps beneath the closed door, fills his chest with a tickle. He tries to shut her out, fingers in his ears, his back slammed down onto the mattress.

But he hears her, and she beckons him, until his hand is in his pocket. Until his phone has been withdrawn. Until he’s staring at that one message once again:

> Jon bites his lower lip as he takes in every word. _I. Hope. You’re. Okay._ It’s simple. It’s meaningful. It doesn’t require a reply.

It’s a statement: _I hope you’re okay._

It’s a wish: _I do hope you’re doing okay._

It’s a question: _are you okay?_

 _I am overthinking this,_ Jon decides, his thumbs moving at their own accord, _just reply something._ The room is chilly. Still he sweats as he presses send:

> Jon flips over onto his stomach and buries his head in the pillow. It is not late. He still feels exhausted. The house is not empty. He still feels alone. He wonders if that’s what aging is like; all you know fades until one day you’re just a skeleton in a chair before the fire, everyone around you too young to understand who you really are.

 _Who are we if no one remembers us?_ Jon wonders, his hand closing tightly around his phone.

* * *

Jon wakes in the pale morning light. Frost covers his duvet. It crackles as he twists and turns, his lips breathing mist into the room. The heat has only just been turned on; he can hear the radiator coughing as it fills with water. Soon, condensation drags down the windows. He remains in bed as he listens to the sounds of the house waking up.

 _A year._ Jon wonders where the time went. He remembers lying in bed like now, staring at the ceiling. The day passed in a blur; church bells, people dressed in black, the priest speaking, Robb holding his hand. He heard people cry. He felt the tears on Arya’s cheek. His own remained dry, thick and stubborn like his tongue which he couldn’t wrestle to speak a single word. It wasn’t until in the night, as he was falling asleep, that the sobbing caught him by surprise. He wailed: “He is gone!” and she replied:

“He is right here,” and she held him:

\- strong, and safe, her arms a shield, her chest a place of comfort; - her fingers in his hair, her lips on his forehead, her heartbeat an echo in his chest; - her voice sweet as she sang:

_Upon a time I could’ve met you_

_And not recognised your tears._

_Hold my hands in the night_

_Whisper me your darkest fears._

_Summer mornings full of laughter_

_Autumn breeze cold on your lips._

_Upon a time means forever,_

_Upon a time means this:_

Jon’s eyes snap open. He was asleep, he realises, the room now drenched in heat. There is sweat on his brow. He wipes it off as he gets out of bed. He slept in his jeans. His legs ache from where the denim has gnawed him raw, but he doesn’t care to change. He just pulls on yesterday’s t-shirt as he checks his phone.

There is a new message:

> Jon leans against the windowsill as he stares down at the front lawn. The snowman sways. The fairy lights glimmer. In the bright sun, he can barely see them. They’re tiny dots of blue and red and green piercing their way through the wet glass. Atop the barren hills, specks of frost shimmer. Above the poplars, the sky is clear. In the horizon, it’s dark with clouds. When he wrestles the window open, he can smell rain in the quiet breeze.

 _I’m here if you need me._ He could spend a whole day mulling over those words, analysing them from every angle. _Or,_ he thinks, his thumbs slowly pressing to the screen, _I could toughen up and reply._ He types. He clicks send:

> Jon feels stupid the second he’s sent it. He tries to delete the message, but before he can navigate through the options, Daenerys replies:

> Jon bites back a smile. Just like that, the year melts away. They’re not strangers who only see each other at sad events. They’re friends. Despite time and tears and frustrations, they’re best friends. As he slowly trudges his way downstairs, his fingers click across the keyboard.

> _Right,_ Jon thinks as he peers over the bannister. The others are in the kitchen. A warm waft of coffee and freshly baked bread hits him as he walks through the hallway. They’re laughing. They’re chatting. Robb says:

“It’s a nice day for a walk,” but Catelyn protests:

“It’s going to rain.”

“I don’t think so,” Sansa replies, “the sky is bright.”

“It always is,” Catelyn replies grimly, “before the storm comes.”

Jon stops in the doorway as he peers in at them. They’re huddled together around the table; Robb, Sansa, Catelyn on one side, Arya, Margaery, and Gendry on the other. Bran’s wheelchair stands empty at the head of the table. Jon can hear the thud from his crutches making the floor upstairs creak.

Arya turns in her seat and cries: “Jon!” She almost knocks her chair over as she rushes up to hug him.

“Hey,” he chuckles and returns the hug. When Gendry stands to shake his hand, he awkwardly lets him, suddenly ashamed at how sweaty he is. Catelyn is watching his messy clothes with distaste, whilst Robb and Margaery both wave from their seats with a smile.

“Hi,” Margaery greets, “it’s been a while.

“It has,” Jon agrees, leading Arya back to her seat. He pushes the wheelchair aside and pulls a stool in to sit. The look on Catelyn’s face grows darker, but she doesn’t speak. She just eyes him as he fills his plate with bread and meat, his stomach growling audibly. “How’s everyone?”

“Who cares,” Robb says and elbows him with a wink, “how’s the _UK Top 40?”_

Jon grimaces through a blush. “Stop it. It was one time.”

“It could’ve been more.”

“One time a very long time ago.”

“So do you not sing anymore?” Margaery asks innocently.

“No longer.”

“Why not?”

Jon’s grimace stiffens on his face, and Robb lets go of a forced laugh. “Anyway,” he says, moving things around the table at random. The air feels tense. It’s like the house is suddenly too hot, strangling the breaths on their lips. When Arya chirps:

“We’re going for a walk,” everyone looks grateful.

“Where?” Jon asks, taking a small bite off a strip of bacon. His stomach still rumbles, but he no longer feels like eating.

“To the woods,” Sansa says. She leans in to see him, smiling: “Dad’s favourite track.”

“A storm is coming,” Catelyn warns.

“We’ll bring umbrellas,” Robb promises. He eyes Jon for a second. “Will you come?” he asks.

Jon slowly chews the bacon. The grease settles in his throat and makes it hard for him to swallow. He coughs. He empties his cup of coffee. He says: “Let me get my boots,” and gets up.

* * *

The woods are bathed in sunlight. It glimmers through the tree crowns above and scatter across the ground. This deep in the forest, the wind from the fields can’t reach them, and the air seems to be at standstill; cold and crisp, nipping frost onto the barren branches. Jon reaches up and bashes one in passing, making flakes of white fall down around him.

“Sorry about this morning,” Robb says. He’s by Jon’s side, his hands hidden in the pockets of his gilet. Ahead of them, Arya and Gendry walk hand in hand and further, leading the way, Sansa, Margaery and Catelyn. The women’s chatter carries far. Jon can hear scattered pieces of their conversations.

Jon kicks the ground. A pine cone jumps out of his way. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.” Robb watches him, so Jon makes sure to feign interest in the sky. It’s just visible; blue, and bright. “I can’t imagine what it’s like. Every night, listening to that song.”

“It’s harder for her,” Jon points out. He’s not sure he means it, but it feels like the polite thing to say. “I can leave at any time. She’s stuck here with the ghost of him.”

“Ah, ghosts!” Robb says with a childlike excitement. “We used to chase them, do you remember?”

“Aye, and we never found any. Those are not the ghosts that trouble her now.”

“No,” Robb agrees, “but it doesn’t take an old house to be haunted.” He sends Jon a pointed look.

Jon kicks another cone aside. “She texted me, you know.” He expects Robb to ask:

“Who?” but instead he nods: “I gathered she would. What did she say?”

“She asked me how I am.”

“And how’s she?”

“She’s okay,” Jon shrugs. “She always says she’s okay.” He can see her still; on the stage floor, her face flushed red, her breath ragged on her blue lips, her eyes full of pain as she whispered:

 _“I’m okay.”_ The audience was silent. The music kept playing. Through the prerecorded noise, the sound of ambulances started whirring. _“I’m okay.”_

Jon shivers in his jacket. He stubbornly stuffs his nose into the collar, sourly watching the ground as he pushes aside twigs and leaves. He’s replayed that scene in his head so many times that he barely knows what’s real and what’s made up. Was her dress red or silver? Was it cold or hot? Was it night or day? He only knows one thing for certain: she was in pain. _And that’s enough._

“I shouldn’t have asked,” Robb says, and Jon agrees:

“No, you shouldn’t,” but when he catches a glimpse of his brother’s hurt face, his stomach sinks. He should apologise. He offers him a cigarette instead. It’s almost as good; as they smoke, the sky above them starts turning dark. Soon, the tops of the tree crowns rustle in the breeze. The wind is picking up.

“Dad used to take me hunting here,” Robb says. He blows smoke toward the clouds. “Every November, we would go looking for hares.”

“I thought you guys went fishing?”

“That too. There’s a river over there,” Robb gestures in the general direction of a hill, “full of salmon. He showed me how to prepare a rod, what knots to use, and explained the best bait. He was a good teacher.”

“He never taught me,” Jon mumbles. He knows it shouldn’t matter, but somehow it does. He feels it again - how alone he is. Even here, surrounded by his family, he can tell that he’s not one of them. They’re all in waterproof gear and big wellies and hats and scarves and gloves. Meanwhile, he’s trembling in his tee, and his Dr Martens are looking worse for wear now covered in an inch of mud.

Robb laughs: “Of course he didn’t!” and gives Jon’s shoulder a playful push. “Why would he? You’re the _creative genius.”_

“Why wouldn’t he?” Jon retorts, his breath snappy. He can taste it in his throat - the sickening feeling of disregard. “I’m his son too.” He pauses. _“Was,”_ he corrects himself. His voice has lost its power.

The smile on Robb’s lips softens. _“Is,”_ he insists. He grabs Jon by the arm, making him stop in his track. “Jon, it’s not my song that’s played on repeat.”

“That’s Catelyn’s doing.”

Robb shakes his head and asks: “Where do you think she got the idea from?”

Jon stares into Robb’s eyes as he finishes his smoke. The clouds above them break open. As fat drops of rain start hammering down through the trees, the women ahead call for them.

“Robb, get the umbrella!” Margaery shouts. She’s covering beneath her hands, Catelyn and Sansa pressed close. “We’ll get soaked!”

“Right,” Robb breathes and sets off in a jog toward them.

“I told you it would rain,” Catelyn says as Robb struggles to fit everyone beneath the shade. “I said: _a storm is coming._ But no one listens.”

As the others hurry through the woods, their bodies pressed close and their chatter loud, Jon falls behind. The rain soon drowns out the sounds around him, and the air fills with the scent of earth. The cigarette grows limp between his lips. He chews on the soggy filter as he withdraws his phone once more.

> Jon glances ahead. The rain is like a grey curtain, blocking his sight. He shakes water out of his hair as he replies. He’s barely pressed sent before Daenerys returns to the chat:

> Jon laughs. He starts typing without thinking. His thumb hovers the screen as he reads the message:

> _Yours never was._ Jon stares at the words. Water rolls down the screen in streams, blurring the messages, making his whole world feel condensated. His chest hurts. He can taste the rain on his lips. It’s dragging down his throat and filling his stomach. He could puke.

Arya waves her hand before his eyes. “Are you coming, Jon?” She shouts to outcry the rain. Her hood is pulled over her head. The fabric sticks to her soaked hair, bits of brown clinging onto her cheeks. “You’ll get sick standing out here.”

Jon quickly deletes the text. “Coming,” he says, though he’s not sure he’s speaking loudly enough for Arya to hear. So he stuffs his phone away in his pocket and gestures for her to lead the way, and he picks up his speed and follows at her heels.

 _Yours never was._ The words force memories to surface:

\- warm hugs, cold airports, soft kisses against the cheek; - well-wishes, drawn out farewells, promises forgotten once spoken; - chest ache, heart break, eleven hours of crying.

Jon breathes in as he escapes the wrath of the rain and jumps onto the dry porch. The front door stands open. He can hear rummaging in the kitchen. A scent of hot chocolate already lingers in the air.

Arya pulls down her hood and grins up at him. “That’s the fastest you’ve ever run!” she teases.

“What do you mean? I’m in perfect shape,” Jon gasps. He tries to steady his heartbeat by breathing slowly. It just makes his head spin.

“Who were you texting back there?” Arya asks as she walks inside.

“No one,” Jon lies.

“Mhmm.” Arya kicks off her wellies and sends him a cheeky look. “Well, tell _no one_ that I wish her a merry Christmas.”

“Tell her yourself,” Jon calls, but she’s already scurried off to the living room. He peels off his jacket. The leather lets go of his arms in a slurp. As he steps out of his boots, his socks sticky and wet, he rolls from heel to toe for heat as he replies to Daenerys’ message:

> * * *

They spend the day pretending to be a family. They play board games. They bake biscuits. They sit in front of the fire in comforting silence, dozing off in the heat from the flames. Catelyn drinks wine. Sansa and Margaery put together a puzzle with Bran. Robb, Arya and Gendry watch sports on the old telly. Theon is late. Rickon is staying over at a friend’s.

 _Whilst Dad is in the crypt,_ Jon thinks, sinking deeper into the sofa as he looks at the photo above the fireplace, _rotting away alone._

Catelyn is in a slim dress. Eddard is in a kilt. They look happy in black and white. Jon is reminded how his dad used to tell the story of their wedding day so vividly that Sansa grew up convinced that she was alive when it took place. But the belly in the photo carries the promise of Robb. This was a time before Rickon and Bran and Arya and Sansa. _And me,_ Jon thinks. It’s been almost thirty years since his dad brought him into the Stark family. He still feels like a stranger.

“Happiest day of my life,” Catelyn says. The sound of her makes everyone stir and glance toward the armchair. She’s nestled back into the old, worn fabric, her blue eyes peering up at the photograph. She raises her glass of wine in a silent cheer. “Happiest day,” she repeats.

Sansa looks at the photo and smiles: “You do look very happy.”

“Such a large, strapping man,” Catelyn says, “in more ways than one.”

“Mum!” Arya grimaces whilst Sansa blushes.

“No one wants to hear that!” Robb laughs.

“Oh, he was handsome,” Catelyn continues unbothered as she sips her wine, “and he still is.”

The smiles on everyone’s faces stiffen. Jon glances between his siblings. No one wants to speak. It makes him feel sick. When he catches Sansa’s eyes, she shakes her head. He still can’t stop himself from saying: “Was.”

Catelyn leans in over the armrest to glare back at him. “What was that?” she asks.

Robb is staring at him. Sansa is looking down at the unfinished puzzle, her fingertips buried in a pile of pieces. Arya sends Jon a pitiful look. He clears his throat. It feels dry and sticky.

“What did you say?” Catelyn presses on.

Jon wants to shout: _he is dead!_ The pipes whistle. The walls seem to vibrate. The whole house is brimming with ghosts of the past: all that is unsaid, undone, forgotten. A year ago, they didn’t have the tree that now stands in the window, glimmering with baubles and tinsel. A year ago, they didn’t have presents wrapped beneath the tree, or hot chocolate, or sport on TV. A year ago, they didn’t pretend to be a family. They were broken, Jon remembers, and they all acknowledged it.

He can’t stand pretending. But he hates the pained look on Arya’s face more. So he says: “Nothing,” and, when Catelyn still stares at him, clarifies: “I said nothing.”

“Was,” Catelyn says. She takes in a deep breath. Her blue eyes narrow. For a moment, she looks angry. Then the next, she looks confused. “Was,” she says, and she sinks back into her armchair as she looks at the photograph with a mournful expression. “That’s right… _The crypt.”_

Margaery jumps to her feet. “How about some music?” she asks.

Robb turns off the telly and nods: “Great idea. I’ll get the radio from the kitchen.”

As the living room comes alive with people busying themselves to bring cheer, Arya sinks down in the seat next to Jon. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, bumping his shoulder with her own, “Mum’s got-”

“-dementia, I know,” Jon mumbles. His nails dip in between the rips of his jeans. The denim still feels damp from their earlier walk in the rain. He wishes himself back to the wet silence of the woods. “I don’t know how to act around her,” he admits.

Arya shrugs. “It’s sometimes better just to play along.”

“But it hurts,” Jon says, sending his sister a pained look.

She peers back at him, her pale eyes wise beyond her tears, and she nods: “That’s what you do for family.”

 _There it is again,_ Jon thinks, averting his eyes as Robb returns with the radio in his arms, the cord jumping across the floor, _family._ They do your head in. They bring you pain. _Yet you persevere,_ he thinks bitterly.

The radio is plugged in. The speakers crackle as Margaery flips through the station, looking for a connection. They hear bits of the news. They catch the end of an opera singer’s solo. There are snippets of Christmas music, the sounds just able to filter through the noise. But no channel sticks. “Come on,” she mumbles as she twists the knob harder.

Catelyn watches the spectacle with dull detachment. Then, after a moment’s silence, she turns back over the armrest and sends Jon an eager look. “Why don’t you play your song?” she asks.

Jon stares at his stepmother with surprise. “My song?”

“Upon a time,” Catelyn says. She sounds impatient. “Ned’s favourite. Oh! I’d love to hear it.”

Before Jon can answer, Sansa laughs. It sounds shrill. It sounds forced. “Mum!” she says, smiling painfully at Jon, “you play it every night already.”

Catelyn ignores her. “I’d love to hear it,” she repeats.

“I don’t think Jon wants to sing,” Robb says, peering between his brother and his mother. There’s sweat on his brow. He waves for Margaery to work harder at getting the radio to work. Her fingers are blushing under pressure.

“It’s Christmas,” Catelyn continues.

“I don’t even have a guitar,” Jon protests.

“You can borrow mine.” Gendry looks at Jon with innocence. As everyone glares at him, the keen smile on his face falters. “I mean,” he says, his voice quieting with every word, “if you want to, that is.” He sinks back into his seat, turning toward the telly, feigning interest in the blank screen.

Catelyn nods. “That’s settled then - you’ll play your song.”

The room is quiet - almost. The radio crackles. The flames snap in the fireplace. Outside, the rain drums against the windows. If someone were to look in, Jon supposes they would see a happy bunch of people preparing for the holidays. In truth, he feels like running. But out loud he says: “Could someone fetch me the guitar?” and a few minutes later he’s prodded up in the windowsill, tuning the strings as everyone watches him.

Jon clears his throat. He straightens up. He eyes each of them; his siblings look concerned, their partners appear shy. Catelyn, however, is brimming. Her armchair has been turned so that she faces him. She watches, hands folded in her lap, a small smile on her lips. He expected her to look malicious. She seems excited.

Jon tries not to look her in the eyes as he drags his fingers across the strings and begins to sing his lines:

_There’s lipstick on your teeth, and your hair is a mess_

_We are dancing in the streets, champagne on our breaths._

_This thing could last forever, or just for tonight;_

_End as total strangers, or with a wedding night._

_But I know your hand in mine, and the taste of your lips, and I_

_Know that you’ll be fine wherever you go, and I_

_Know we’ll meet again one day soon, and I_

_Hope that you’ll be mine, yes I_

_Hope that you’ll be mine._

The rain picks up. Darkness has fallen outside. He is lit up by the glow of the fairy lights strung around the window frame, and the orange flicker of the fire peering through his waiting family. He pretends they’re an audience. He imagines the limelight is making him sweat. He closes his eyes and wishes himself back on stage.

He is not alone; there is Grey, brows furrowed as he plays, and Daario, flirting with the girls in the front row, and Satin, swaying his hips seductively. When he sings, they all sing through him:

_Upon a time I could’ve met you_

_And not recognised your tears._

_Hold my hands in the night_

_Whisper me your darkest fears._

_Summer mornings full of laughter_

_Autumn breeze cold on your lips._

_Upon a time means forever,_

_Upon a time means this:_

And there is Daenerys.

Jon’s eyes flutter open. The room is quiet. He is quiet. His fingers rest on the strings. He is not sure for how long he has been silent, but it must have been a while, because the flames look smaller, and Catelyn is rocking impatiently in her seat.

“The next part,” she urges, “Daenerys’ part.”

 _Daenerys’ part._ Jon swallows. He knows the words. He has sung it over and over. He has listened to it in the night; echoing between the walls of the mansion. But the lyrics seem stuck in his throat. Like caramel, they cling onto his teeth, neither allowing him to spit them out nor swallow them. He chews on his emotions.

“The next part,” Catelyn urges. She sounds desperate.

Robb clears his throat. “It’s okay,” he says, looking at Jon. When he meets his eyes, he nods. “You don’t have to.”

“Jon,” Sansa breathes. She doesn’t say else. She doesn’t have to - she looks at him pleadingly, asking him to stop.

Jon tries to speak. Nothing comes out. He just sees Daenerys; like a ghost, walking amongst them, smiling at him from every crack in the wall.

“For God’s sake!” Catelyn snaps. “If you can’t sing it, then bring Daenerys in here.”

“Daenerys is not here,” Margaery says kindly. She places her hand on Catelyn’s arm, but Catelyn shakes her off.

“Where is Daenerys? Daenerys will sing it. Jon, ask Daenerys to sing it.” Her voice is getting more breathless. She looks around at everyone with annoyance. “Why are you looking at me like this? Ned wants to hear the song, too. Ned! Arya, get your father in here.”

“Mum-” Arya starts. Her pale eyes look wet.

Jon breathes in sharply. His sister’s voice plays in his head: _it’s sometimes better to just play along._ So he swallows. He parts his lips. He sings Daenerys’ part:

_Tattoos on your shoulders, and scars across your chest_

_Together we are free, you know my heart the best._

_Is this feeling forever, or just for tonight;_

_Will I wake with you or be alone in the morning light?_

_For I know the way you smile, and the scent of your hair, and I_

_Know that you’ll do fine wherever you go, and I_

_Know we’ll meet again some day soon, and I_

_Hope that you’ll be mine, yes I_

_Hope that you’ll be mine._

_Upon a time I could’ve met you_

_And not recognised your tears._

_Hold my hands in the night_

_Whisper me your darkest fears._

_Summer mornings full of laughter_

_Autumn breeze cold on your lips._

_Upon a time means forever,_

_Upon a time means this:_

Her hand in his, warm; - her smile against his cheek, loving; - her promise of _forever,_ full of truth. Her voice young and sweet as she whispers with him:

_I know the way you held me meant more than you could say, and I_

_Know the way you kissed me was an ask for me to stay, and I_

_Wish I could have known you better than I do, yes I_

_Wish you’ll let me love you; do you love me too?_

The guitar bangs to the floor as Jon gets up. He pushes his way past his siblings. He runs onto the porch. The air inside is hot and dry, choking him, dragging at his lungs and making him feel parched. The wind outside is wet and cold and calming. He hangs in over the railing as the clouds above let loose. He feels like a leaf caught in the storm, out of control and lost to the world.

But by the time he’s lit a cigarette, he’s no longer alone.

“I’m so sorry,” Margaery says.

Jon looks back at her. She stands in the doorway, her frame lit up by the light inside. Her face is shrouded in darkness. Her jumper dress looks fuzzy around the edges. She smells of cocoa and sugar. The scents are bashed around by the breeze. It makes him feel sick. “Don’t worry,” he says and has a long drag of his smoke.

“It’s all my fault,” Margaery continues. She steps out onto the porch. She settles down on the top steps, staring mournfully into the darkness. “It’s all because I suggested _music._ I’m so stupid. That and this morning, asking about your singing, I-”

“Don’t worry,” Jon repeats. Smoke flows from his lips. He peers down at her as he shrugs: “You couldn’t have known.”

“I still don’t know. And I’m not asking you to tell me,” she quickly clarifies, her brown eyes wide as if she’s fearful of every word she speaks, “just- I don’t even know what _not_ to say.” She sighs. She wraps her arms around her knees. “I feel like an idiot.”

Jon smokes. Jon watches the clouds. Behind their dark linings, he can see a sliver of moonlight. He focuses on it as he speaks: “It was the last song we sang together.” He peers at Margaery from the corners of his eyes. He sees her looking back. “Daenerys and I.”

“You really don’t have to tell me,” she promises.

Jon offers her a cigarette. She peels one out from the box. As he settles down on the step next to her, he hands her his lighter. For a moment, they just smoke, the tips of the cigarettes burning red dots in the blackness. Then, Jon continues: “Her brother used to live up here.”

“Daenerys’ brother?” Margaery asks.

He nods. “Rhaegar, that was his name. _Rhaegar._ She didn’t get along with her dad, so every summer she would travel up here to stay with him. That’s how we met.” He smiles a little. He can see her still; sunburned and silver-haired, freckles on her cheeks and a stubborn look to her violet eyes. The prettiest girl in town. _The prettiest girl in the world._ “I had a band. Nothing special, just some teenagers jamming in Dad’s garage, you know? But she liked the stuff we did. She would hang around and boss us about. Satin used to get really annoyed with her. But then we heard her _sing.”_

As Jon’s smile grows, Margaery’s lips pull upwards. “She was good?”

“She was _great,”_ Jon corrects her. “She made the band what it became. Without her, we’d never-” He pauses. He swallows. He could stop, he thinks, and no one would blame him. But he presses on: “You know how well it went. That song got us contacts in America.”

“You must’ve been thrilled.”

“We were - until she collapsed.” Jon taps ashes off his smoke. He wonders when he last spoke about that day. He sees it as vividly as he did in the woods. He hears her voice still: _I’m okay._ “Do you know what cystic fibrosis is?”

Margaery looks caught off-guard. She shakes her head.

“It’s a genetic disease. It will ruin your lungs over time. In Daenerys’ case, hers collapsed whilst we were on stage singing.”

“They _collapsed?”_ Margaery looks shocked.

Jon wipes his cheeks off in his arm. He supposes the rain must be blowing in from the woods. He feels wet. He feels sad. He feels like curling up beneath the duvet and never coming back out. “We all knew she had it. She never let it stop her. She’d cough herself blue before getting on stage, and then perform to perfection. We thought she was fine. Hell, I think _she_ thought she was fine. Until-”

* * *

_“You need to slow down.”_

_The hospital was white. The doctor’s office was small. Daenerys and Jon sat so close that their hands brushed. He could feel her knuckles shivering. Her pale skin was clammy._

_“I can’t,” Daenerys simply said. “Not now.”_

_The doctor watched her from above the rim of his glasses. “You have to. Your body can’t take the pressure you’re putting on it.”_

_“I’m okay,” she insisted._

_“Healthy lungs don’t collapse spontaneously.”_

_Daenerys’ lips pursed. “I know what I’m dealing with. It’s nothing new. Breathing exercises, inhalers, medication - I’ve done it since I was a kid.”_

_“But you’re no longer a child,” the man reminded her. Before she could say anything, he leaned in over the desk, hands folded, eyes grave. “Dany, how many years have you been in my care?”_

_“Too many,” Daenerys replied, a small smile on her lips._

_The man nodded with a chuckle. “Too many,” he agreed. “I know your mantra: I am fine! I am okay! Leave me alone!” He held up his hands in exasperation before shaking his head. “But you’re driving yourself to the edge, and I don’t want to see you fall over.”_

_Daenerys took in a sharp breath through her nose. “So,” she said, hands wringing in her lap, “what do you suggest?”_

_The doctor looked at Jon. He looked at Daenerys. He waited for her to nod:_

_“He can stay,” before speaking:_

_“I think it’s time we discuss the possibility of a transplant.”_

_Time stood still - the clock on the wall didn’t move, the sun outside paused in its glimmer, the aircon quieted, the air in the room tasted stale. When Jon looked at Daenerys, he knew what he expected to see: an optimistic, brave, confident woman. But he saw something else. He saw_ fear. _Cold, and cruel, the emotion filled her violet eyes, and it seemed to drench her whole body in a shiver. He scooted close. He grabbed her hand. She broke down against his shoulder._

_“It’s happening again!” she cried. “It’s happening again - I’ll end up just like Rhaegar!”_

_And Jon knew, holding her trembling, crumbling body in his hands, that he was completely incapable of helping her._

* * *

Jon flings his cigarette onto the front lawn and lights another. His hands shiver. He can barely hold onto the lighter. “Rhaegar was on the damned list for three years,” he says, “he died before they found a donor.”

The evening is quiet. The rain has mostly stopped. There is just a light patter of drops above hitting the roof. The silence makes Margaery’s quickened breath stand out. Jon doesn’t want to look at her. He knows he’ll find pity. He doesn’t need it - he’s not the one twiddling his thumbs waiting for a call from the NHS.

So Jon smokes, and Jon scoffs at the sky, the stars now prickling through the dark clouds. He feels like crying. Instead he carries on: “We all finally realised that she was _not_ okay. Our flights were booked to LA for the following week. There was no way she could travel with a collapsed lung. I wanted to break up the band, but Daenerys?” He lets go of a harsh laugh around the cigarette. He can taste ashes and bile on his tongue. “Daenerys wouldn’t allow us to quit the dream, so she quit the band instead. She waved us goodbye at the airport. I’m not sure who cried more that day.” He pauses. He looks down at his boots. “Probably me.”

Margaery is still quiet. For some reason, it makes it easier.

“We never made it,” Jon says. He twirls the smoke around between his fingers. “I mean, we made it to America, and we gave it a try. We released a few singles. They did,” he shrugs, _“okay._ We went on tour. We played at the crappiest places. Our producer wanted us to be more appealing, so they hired Val. She was some girl from Alaska. Very pretty. Very sweet. A good singer and great at getting the audience engaged. There was just this tiny problem.” He stops. He smokes.

Margaery asks: “What?”

Jon lowers the cigarette. He blows smoke into the air. As it becomes one with the darkness, he peers at her from the corners of his eyes and weakly smiles: “She was not Daenerys.”

Margaery reaches out and wraps her arms around him. As his nose sinks into her brown locks, smelling sugar and rain and hairspray, he closes his eyes and lets her hold him. His hands cling onto her dress. His lips tremble.

It’s been a year since he saw her. At his dad’s funeral, she looked small and weak. She had lost weight. She still put on a brave smile. When he asked her:

“How are things?” she said:

“Going well.” He never asked if she got the transplant yet. He couldn’t make himself bring it up. But as they sat on the backseat of his car, as their fingers wrapped together, and his thumb traced every bone of her hand, all he could think was:

_She is slipping away._

Out of his life. Out of his memory. Like a ghost, just a trace of the person he once knew. _And there is nothing I can do._

A pair of headlights break through the blackness. Wheels chug up the mud of the avenue, spraying dirt onto the waving snowman. The car has barely parked up before Theon emerges from the driver side, his cheeky grin visible in the glimmer from the fairy lights. “I don’t see any mistletoe!” he calls to them.

“We’re not kissing!” Margaery replies. She still pulls away from Jon, her cheeks bright red.

Theon whistles as he approaches. “Jon! I thought you were Robb. Think you might have a hold of the wrong girl.”

“I could say the same to you,” Jon replies as Sansa comes running out of the house, her slippers falling off her feet as she throws herself at Theon.

“Theon!” she cries excitedly. “You came!”

“Anywhere for you!”

Jon and Margaery share a tired look as they both get back onto their feet. As Sansa and Theon struggle to untangle themselves, Jon pushes his hands into the pockets of his jeans and scurries inside. But before he can pass the threshold, Margaery gives his sleeve a tug and she says:

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For sharing that,” Margaery explains kindly. “It can’t have been easy.”

Jon watches her for a second longer before nodding. “It’s alright.”

“There’s so much about this family that I still don’t know. Sometimes, I wonder if I’ll ever really fit in,” she sighs as they cross the hallway together.

Jon’s gaze slips past the framed photos before peering into the living room. Catelyn is rolled up in the armchair. She’s pulled down the wedding photograph. It’s resting in her lap as she gently caresses Eddard’s face with a longing look in her eyes. “I know what you mean,” he mumbles to Margaery before heading for the stairs. “Goodnight.”

“Sleep well,” she replies. But he know he won’t, because he’s barely made it to the landing before the song starts:

_There’s lipstick on your teeth, and your hair is a mess_

_We are dancing in the streets, champagne on our breaths_

_…_

Jon locks himself in his room. He looks out of the window. Sansa and Theon are still outside, impromptu dancing and laughing. She looks happy. He looks happy. He is not sure if the sight makes him feel joyful or jaded.

He settles on the edge of his desk. He lights another smoke. He pulls out his phone. He takes in a deep breath. He messages her:

> Jon chuckles. He scoots further back on the desk until his back is flushed with the wall, then types:

> _Some things change,_ Jon thinks, his gaze catching sight of a rip in the wallpaper above him, _and some things stay the same._ He pushes at it. There, beneath the flap, they’ve written their names once upon a time. _Jon and Dany._ His handwriting is hopeless. Hers is perfectly cursive. An old piece of tape clings onto the edge of the rip. They tried to cover it up, their own little secret. But now it’s on show for all to see.

> _Yes,_ Jon thinks, chewing on the cigarette, _yes, it is._

Moments of _almost._ Moments of _could have._ Instead of _Jon and Dany,_ it could’ve been _Jon + Dany._ He can still see the tracings from where he rubbed it out and wrote over it before letting Daenerys add her name. He was sixteen and besmitten. He imagined the feeling was a stomach ache, and that his cheeks blushed from heat, and that his nightly dreams were snippets from movies he’d seen. _You’re sixteen,_ he told himself, _you know nothing of love._

Now, he’s almost thirty. _And I still know nothing._

> Jon pauses. He stares at the phone. Something is opening up in his mind. Something is coming back.

> He remembers:

\- photographs, newspaper cut-outs, letters; - smoking and drinking into the early hours of the morning; - the cold bite of the wind, the dirty smell of earth; - a promise of: _when we’re all rich and famous._

> __

* * *

The frost nips at Jon’s cheeks as he trudges down the steps of the porch. The sun has barely risen; cold, red light illuminates the crowns of the poplars, making their shadows long and soft across the hard ground. A single robin sits perched on the rooftop of his car. He watches it chirp and flutter away with the morning breeze.

Jon is wearing a jumper. He still shivers as he makes his way to the back of the house. The garden is covered in a dusting of white; the rose bushes stand barren, the vegetable garden looks overgrown, and the greenhouse appears lonely, nothing but empty pots decorating its shelves. _It’s a dead Winter Wonderland,_ he thinks as he heads down the path.

 _By the trees out back._ There are plenty to choose from - just beyond the evergreen shrubs lies the edge of the forest. The pine stand tall and white, the trunks nestled close. Jon lets his fingertips stroke across the gritty bark as he tries to jog his memory. There are moments in time weaved in with the present; summer eve picnics, climbing with his siblings, hide and seek played at dusk.

\- and a message. Jon spots it from afar: there, carved into the trunk of one of the trees, is a star. Time has worn down its shape, and moss and dirt cling onto the sharp ends, almost making it look like a circle. But he remembers: _when you wish upon a star._

They saw it in the pale morning light when they headed out with the box. His breath still tasted of whisky. He thought they were just drunk. “It’s a plane!” he said. “It’s just a plane!” But the others insisted:

“It’s a shooting star! Make a wish!” and Daenerys suggested:

“Let’s wish for America!” So they did. Grey, Daario, Satin, Daenerys, and Jon.

 _But I wished for something else,_ Jon remembers.

It was summer when they buried the box. The earth was soft and easy to turn. Now, he can’t even kick a dent in the frozen ground. He grabs a shovel from the old shed. The shaft is full of splinters, and the metal is chipped. _But it will do,_ he thinks as he gets to work.

Five minutes later, as Jon’s breath has turned ragged and his cheeks are flushed from exhaustion, he finally spots the edge of the metal case. It glimmers in the sun. It is cold to the touch. The top has been engraved with ‘THE BEASTS’, and a wet label on the side states:

_DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2026._

_We thought it would last ten years,_ Jon thinks as he heads back inside, his thumbs stroking dirt and rust off the edges, _how things have changed._

Everyone is still asleep. Jon tiptoes across the hallway and into the first empty room on his right. It’s an old office full of books and plants. He sinks into the chair behind the grand oak desk and places the box in front of him. He wants to open it straight away. He finds that he can’t make himself do it. His hands remain in his laps, stubborn and unwilling, as he stares at the label:

_DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 2026._

They expected to open it together. He supposes they thought they’d be home from touring Europe, pop open a bottle of champagne, and then dive into the memories of a past life when they were unknown and unimportant. They thought they’d always be together. _But where are we now?_ Jon muses, sinking further into the chair.

Grey is in Spain with his girlfriend, running a small restaurant by the beach. Daario stayed behind in the states, working as a waiter whilst auditioning for musicals. Satin married an American director and settled with him in Canada. Daenerys moved in with her mum in Brighton as her health deteriorated.

 _We’re still unknown, and we’re still unimportant,_ Jon thinks bitterly as he reaches for the box, _and it’s all we’ll ever be._

Bent photographs, and yellowed ticket stubs, and stacks of notes tied together with ribbon, and personalised guitar picks, and letters with neatly decorated envelopes, and newspaper cut-outs, and signed magazine photoshoots. As Jon tips the tin over, memories scatter across the desk like colourful confetti. The box was filled to the brim. Water has leaked through the rusted lid. Most of the paper has a damaged edge, with words written in ink leaking into one another. But he can read it, and he can see it - years of a life he’d forgotten. Like:

\- the tickets to their first show. It was in a basement in Soho, London. The place was dirty. The drinks were overpriced. Jon still remembers the rush of excitement as he stepped onto stage. This was before _Upon a time._ This was before radio hits and dreams of tours. They were just young and naive, sweating in the limelight, fingers shivering on the microphone. They sang:

\- _Feel me in the Night,_ the lyrics have been written and rewritten on the same sheet of paper. Jon can see Daenerys’ edits atop his clumsy handwriting. He always carried a notebook around in case they got an idea. They would spend all their evenings at:

\- ‘The Lion’, the local pub in Ullapool. They nicked the coaster after signing their names on the back. As Jon rubs his thumb across it, he can still feel the stain from Daario’s spilled ale. They worked as a team, changing their image and refining their sound. But it was Daenerys who came up with their hit:

\- _Upon a time._ They’d been up all night. Jon smoked. Daenerys drank. Grey and Daario had fallen asleep on the sofa. Satin sat playing with Eddard’s camera. He said:

“Look this way!” just as Jon blew smoke toward the ceiling. But Daenerys stared right into the lens, lips parted, head rolled slightly back, her violet eyes bright with inspiration.

Jon stares at the photograph. In the years to come, Eddard would proclaim that he had a part in them creating a hit. “Was it not for my camera,” he teased, “Dany wouldn’t have been struck by inspiration!” Whatever it was, by the time Satin lowered the camera and Jon finished his cigarette, Daenerys had added the last touch to the song that would convince the country that they were worth listening to:

_I know the way you held me meant more than you could say, and I_

_Know the way you kissed me was an ask for me to stay, and I_

_Wish I could have known you better than I do, yes I_

_Wish you’ll let me love you; do you love me too?_

Jon remembers her jumping to her feet and urging:

“Let’s give this a go,” and they all lazily pulled their instruments together and settled for a session in the early hours of the morning. Daenerys sang. Jon listened. As the first stream of sunlight fell in across their faces, warming them from the cold grip of the night, they all knew that they were on to something big.

 _She’d want to see this,_ Jon thinks and withdraws his phone. He hovers the table as he tries to take a picture of the photograph:

> Jon’s sleeve catches onto the edge of a frayed piece of tape. As he sits back into the chair, paper cut-outs and pictures and letters fly off the desk and scatter across the floor. He swears under his breath, rips the tape off his jumper, and sinks onto his knees as he begins collecting the pieces. Guitar picks are flung back into the box with a hollow sound. Letters are badly rewrapped. The photograph of the two of them is retrieved from a crack in the floor. He blows dust off the surface. He rubs it clean in his arm. He checks the colour for damage.

He inspects the back with perplexity.

There, written in Daenerys’ swirly handwriting, is a message:

_Upon a time I met you_ _  
__and realised what life could be._

 _This song is for you Jon;_ _  
__may you one day choose me._

 _Yours forever and always,  
_ _Dany_

Time goes backwards.

\- hands, laughter, silver hair, stories giggled below blankets; - games of ‘would you rather’, sharp pencils marking names on the wallpaper, the scent of roses; - kisses, promises, whispers of: _“Forever and always”._

“It was always her,” Jon knows; since she appeared in his life, there had been no one else who made his heartbeat quicken, who made his eyes glimmer, who could make him smile. But he didn’t know that to her: “It was always me.”

J + D. Not Jon and Dany. Jon plus Dany. They stood in the garden. They wished upon a shooting star. But he wished for her and she wished for him, their gazes briefly meeting, their cheeks warm, their hands bumping when no one looked.

Jon’s hand trembles when he clicks her number. He can taste his heartbeat in his throat. He can hear ringing in his ears. There’s a click on the other end.

Daenerys says: “Hi-” and Jon interrupts:

“Dany, I found the box.”

“Jon-” Daenerys starts, but he continues:

“I saw the picture.” The excitement spills out of him. The years melt away. They mean nothing. Not when he says: “I saw the message. Dany, I-”

“It’s happening.”

Jon pauses. He can hear her breathing; it is paced, but quick. She sounds exhausted. She sounds on edge. “What’s happening?” he asks. But he already knows before she says:

“They’ve got a donor.”

The sun has risen fully now. Red, orange and yellow spill across the hard ground, melt the peck of frost off the poplars, make the windows drip with condensation. Jon stares out at the brightening sky. He says: “Are they sure?”

“They’ve checked everything. They just told me.” Daenerys takes in a deep breath. “The lungs, Jon, they’re- they’re _perfect.”_

Jon doesn’t know what to say. He can hear the fear in her voice. He can taste the anxiety on her breath. He wishes he was there, holding her, comforting her. But all he can do is jest: “Just in time for Christmas!”

Daenerys laughs. It sounds wet. Like she’s:

 _Crying._ Jon swallows. He closes his eyes. He hopes he sounds cheery when he says: “That’s good, right?” He tries to forget statistics. She read them to him every night. _Complications,_ and _infections,_ and _increased risks._

“Living is a risk,” Jon used to tell her to calm her down, “but we all do it anyway, right?” Now, when she’s facing it, it seems like hollow advice. He feels dumb for saying it.

On the other end, Daenerys agrees: “It is good.”

“Is your mum with you?”

“She’s at work. She’ll get here as soon as she can.”

“Oh God, Dany, you shouldn’t be alone.”

“I’m at Harefield. It’s not that far from Brighton. She’ll be here soon enough.”

“But-”

“I’ll be okay,” she stops him.

Jon lets go of a breathless laugh. “You always say that,” he reminds her.

“So it must be true.” There’s the sound of a door shutting. Muffled voices play in the background. “The doctors are here,” Daenerys says. Her voice is a whisper again, full of excitement and fear. “I’ll have to go. Merry Christmas, Jon.”

“Merry Christmas,” Jon says, but she’s already hung up, “Dany.”

The silence is unbearable. Jon can hear himself; how he swallows, the way his knuckles crack, how his elbow snaps when he puts his phone away, the ragged breath on his lips, the scratchy noise as he wipes wetness from his beard. His cheeks are soaked. He keeps rubbing them. They don’t dry up.

 _She’s alone,_ he thinks. The hospital is white and big. The bed is small and cold. The doctors are strangers. _She shouldn’t be alone._

Jon is moving before he realises it. In his mind, he’s still by the window, watching the sun rise, speaking to Daenerys on the phone. But he sees his hands close the box. He spots his feet skip the stairs to his bedroom. His body packs his suitcase. It drags him down to the hallway. It closes his fingers around the handle.

“Ned.”

Jon blinks. He feels like he’s woken up from a dream. He peers over his shoulder. On the stairs stands Catelyn. She’s in her nightgown, her red hair ruffled and her blue eyes sleepy. The slippers on her feet look too big. They rub against the wood as she descends.

“Ned, where are you going?”

Jon’s grip around the handle tightens. He could leave, he supposes, and she wouldn’t even know it was him. But Arya’s words resurface: _sometimes it’s better to just play along._ He grits his teeth together. He says: “I have to leave.”

“Jon is unwell. You can’t leave a sick child.” Catelyn steps onto the carpet. The floorboards creak as she walks toward him. Her hand on his back is warm. “Ned-”

Jon turns. Jon looks into her eyes.

At the sight of him, Catelyn seems taken aback. “Jon?” she asks.

Jon nods. His hand still rests on the handle.

“You are okay,” she says.

Again, Jon nods. He feels like his throat has been snared shut. His lungs are burning. He wants to scream. Not a single sound crosses his lips.

For a moment, Catelyn seems to consider him. Her blue eyes darken. Her lips tighten. She looks like she did the day he arrived; cold, and unfriendly. “You were ill, do you remember?” she asks.

Jon finally finds his voice. “You told me already,” he says, his words hoarse, “you hoped I would die.”

“No,” Catelyn protests. She shakes her head. “No, no that’s not right.”

“You told me yourself.”

“No.” Catelyn keeps shaking her head. She looks angry. She looks confused. “No, I fed you soup and sat up all night as you slept, your face as red as an apple. And I said: oh, please God, let this child live.”

Jon doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. _She doesn’t even remember if she hates me,_ he thinks, pushing the door open. “I need to go.”

“Memories are like that sometimes,” Catelyn says as the cold wind bashes in around them, “they play tricks on you.”

Jon thinks of Daenerys. He thinks of the wasted years. He pauses on the threshold. _She loved me,_ he thinks, _and I didn’t even realise._ He looks back at Catelyn. He tightens the strap of his bag. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I have to go.”

“Where?”

“A friend of mine is in hospital.”

“Is it Daenerys?” Catelyn asks brazenly and, when Jon nods in surprise, she says: “It’s Christmas. You should be with your family.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says again, but Catelyn shakes her head.

“I tried, Jon, I really did. I knew it wasn’t enough, but it was the best I could do. But Daenerys-” She sighs. She looks toward the sky. For a second, Jon believes she’s gone again, disappeared into her own mind and forgotten the world around her. But then she says: “You guys made your own family. _The Beasts._ When I saw you two together, I knew you had it.”

Jon gives her an odd look. “Had what?”

“It’s like in your song. _Upon a time._ Ned and I had that. Robb and Margaery do. Theon and Sansa. Arya and Gendry.” She pauses. “You and Daenerys.”

 _Love,_ Jon understands at once. She either can’t say it, or won’t say it, but it’s clear on her face - from the brightness in her eyes to the small smile on her lips. _Love._ “I know,” he replies, his voice a bit weak, “I understand now what it means.”

“Be careful,” Catelyn says, staring up at the sky again, “there’s a storm coming.”

Jon peers up at the clear blue sky. There is not a single cloud. Winter will end. Spring is ahead. He feels like he can already smell it. “I’ll bring an umbrella,” he just says and smiles at her.

 _Things that stay linger,_ Jon thinks as he packs his car, the box of memories nestled onto the passenger seat, _sooner or later, you must confront them._ He pulls out his GPS. He taps in the hospital. The display reads: _10hours 42minutes._

Jon takes in a deep breath. He turns on the radio. He sets off down the avenue.

* * *

Snow is cluttered against the window. Outside, the breeze is cold, and the frost is bitter, and the sky is dark in the early afternoon, the streetlamps on before four o’clock. Inside, it is warm, and people speak over paper cups of hot chocolate, and the light from the lamps glow dimly, bathing the white walls in an orange glow.

Jon sits and watches Daenerys. She sleeps. She breathes. Her duvet smells of detergent. Her headboard has been decorated with tinsel. The nurses insist it is not allowed. Rhaella puts it back up every time they look the other way.

“She has missed so much in life,” she says, “she won’t miss Christmas as well.”

But right now, they are alone. He is in the chair. She is in the bed. The snow keeps falling, and their fingers keep intertwining. When he pulls away, she pulls him back. She holds him more tightly every day.

“Jon?”

Jon leans in. Daenerys is peering up at him. From between her pale lashes, he can see her violet eyes glimmer. “Hi,” he smiles. He reaches up to brush a lock of her silver hair out of her face. Her cheek is warm. Her chin is freckled. Her smile is faint - but it is visible.

“I thought I was dreaming.”

“You say that every time you see me.”

Daenerys laughs. She coughs. She winches at the pain. She settles back into the pillows. “I’m okay,” she says.

“You say that every time too,” Jon points out.

Daenerys chuckles with a grimace. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like-” Daenerys furrows her brows, “like I’ve just been born.” There is pain in the sentence, Jon knows; every day, she is relearning how to breathe, how to use her lungs, how to keep her body going. But there is also hope; for every day, she can gasp a bit deeper, she can cough a little harder, she can walk a little further.

She is newborn to the world, fumbling her way like a baby, entering a life full of possibilities.

“How long have you been here?” she asks.

Jon shrugs. “A few days.”

“A few days!” Daenerys stares up at the ceiling. She shakes her head. “Time is bleeding into one.”

“I know that feeling,” Jon says with a small smile.

“It’s Christmas,” Daenerys continues, “you should be at home.”

“I am.”

“With family.”

 _“I am.”_ Jon holds her hand between his own, squeezing it kindly until she looks at him. “I found the photograph, remember?” he asks and, when Daenerys shakes her head, he pulls out his phone and shows her the messages. Something in her eyes spark.

“That’s when we wrote the song,” she whispers.

“When _you_ wrote the song,” he corrects her. He waits for a beat, then asks: “Do you remember something else you wrote?”

For a moment, Daenerys seems confused. Then, her cheeks flush pink, and her hand in his grows restless. “Jon,” she breathes. Her eyes are shy. They are pained. They are fearful. “Jon, you don’t have to say anything.”

So Jon doesn’t speak. He sings:

_Now I know the way I miss you just makes my body ache, and I_

_Know the way I need you is more than I can take, and I_

_Wish I could have loved you better than I did, so I_

_Hope you’ll let me love you, because God forbid that I_

_Shouldn’t get to love you; the way that I did._

The words came easily to him on the road to London. _Upon a time._ It was a love song for everyone - for Catelyn and Ned, and Robb and Margaery, and Sansa And Theon, and Arya and Gendry. It was for him. _And now,_ he thinks, looking at Daenerys, _it’s for her._

Daenerys looks back at him. Tears are rolling down her cheeks. Her breath seems stuck on her lips. For a second, Jon worries she’s forgotten how to breathe. But then she sobs: “Does that mean you love me?” and Jon, releasing a laugh of relief, leans in over her, pushes his hands into her soft hair, and bumps his nose to hers as he breathes:

“Always and forever.”

When they kiss, the years no longer melt away. They add on. They carry them into the future:

\- to Soho, London. The bar is still dirty. The drinks are still overpriced. But they are no longer young and nervous. The place is full of people. They cheer them on as they say: “Here’s our newest single: _ghost of us.”_ And it plays on:

\- the radio, back at Winterfell manor. Arya and Gendry decorate the tree. Sansa and Theon serve mulled wine. Margaery and Robb wrap presents. Bran and Rickon play board games. Daenerys and Jon sit in the windowsill, guitar between them, and they sing to Catelyn as she returns from the shop with groceries. She waves at them from the front yard. They wave back. And they are:

\- a family - broken, but perfect in their own little way.

But for now, they’re in the hospital, and they are kissing, and it is snowing, and Daenerys sobs with laughter, and Jon smiles and wipes her tears away, and he knows:

\- they are loved, and they are in love. And it is all that matters. For always, and forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this story as well as the art by DragonandDirewolf.
> 
> Lung transplants are not frequently carried out in the UK - not because they're not needed, but because there is a lack of available donors. I wanted to reflect the harsh realities often faced by those on the waiting list; uncertainty and fear, but also hope. May we one day be in a position to help all of those in need.
> 
> Incidentally, this is my 100th Jonerys story. Where did the time go! Thank you so much for all of your support, for reading my scribbles, and for leaving the most amazing feedback on my stories. Without you, I wouldn't be here. Whether or not you celebrate, I wish you all the best in this cold season.


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